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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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Chap.i._.rf. Copyright No. 

Slielf_i_t-5--C5^ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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ON 



COLORADO'S Fair Mesas 



XniscellanH 



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[ILLUSTRATED] 



BY 

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Wm. b. ebbert. 



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Mail Publishing Oo. 
pubblo, colo. 

1897. 



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Copyright, 1897, by Wm. B. Ebbebt. 



TO MY SIX OHILDBEN. 



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Table of Contents. 



Frontispiece— Pike's Peak. 

A Tiny Blossom of the Plain 1 

Pro Patria 2 

The Old Clock 3 

Home-Made Trousers, for Boys 4 

Mary 5 

Riley 6 

Wagon Wheel Gap and the Rio Grande. 

The Maid of Costilla 7 

Christmas 8 

The Rain That Didn't Come 10 

Thompson 11 

Dear My Wife 12 

The Last Day of School 13 

The Summer Days are Ended 14 

A Plea for the Down Man 15 

On the Promenade 16 

Farewell 17 

Before an Open Album 18 

The Poet, Burns 20 

Don't 21 

A New Race 22 

The Spanish Peaks. 



Robert ^^ 

Fletcher Hill, Pueblo 25 

The Old Shop 26 

Tonight 27 

The Tramp 29 

At the Brook '^^ 

On Legs ^^ 

Confidence in Human Nature 32 

Colorado 33 

On Thanksgiving 35 

Williams Canon. 

Wa-ah 37 

The Buckwheat Cake 38 

The Veteran's Day 39 

Hazel 40 

A Summer Idyl 41 

'Gene Field and Labor's Rewards 42 

Our Schools and the New West 44 

Set Speeches 45 

A Modern Hero..' 46 

He Wore the Sweetest Smile 47 

Lincoln 48 

Joe Jefferson 49 

A Song Comes to My Heart Tonight 50 

The Half-Way House 51 

Bill Nye 52 

A Vizzut to The 23 53 

The Cigar Stump 55 

Our Tall Boys 56 

Bun Jessup 57 

My Friend, Elmer 58 



A TINY BLOSSOM OF THE PLAIN. 



There is a flower that unto thee doth lend 
A gladder voice, and all thy senses thrill; 
Some simple bloom that decked thy native 
hill- 
Some flower with which life's holiest passions 
blend. 

Is it the appealing glance so meek and coy, 
Its comely form, its Heaven-imprinted face, 
Its wildwood-fragrance, or its modest grace. 

That stirs thy soul with deep, transporting joy? 

Is it for all the memories that wake 

From out the bowery aisles of glen and grove, 
Where trilled the birds their sweetest notes of 
love? 

Or is this fair bloom cherished for its sake? 

I know a tiny blossom of the plain, 

That speaks to me, and speaks to me alone, 
Of one upon whose breast its glory shone, 

And lights with gentle fire her eyes again. 

That wreathes with vernal air each golden hour 
Till low the sun sinks to his ancient rest; 
For me I know not which I love the best — 

The magic of its presence, or the flower. 



PRO P ATRIA. 

[To Two Friends, on the Pouadins of the Pueblo 
Saturday Mail.] 

The lofty soal who frames in deathless lays 
His hig"h-wroug"ht strains, from an empyreal 

iyre, 
Which deep attune the nation's heart to praise, 
Or wake our love, or virtuous aims inspire. 
Bestows a g-ift that breathes a holy fire. 
Nor may the trusted rulers of a state, 
Or yet its martial heroes proud, aspire 
To mould with surer hand its opening- fate. 
Or reap rewards so rich as those which him 

ay/ait. 

And you, within a kindred sphere, may write 
That which shall long- constrain to g-enerous 

deeds, 
And firm, your name and reverent praise unite. 
Behold, the cause of honest labor bleeds ! 
Trusts are enthroned; an age of pride succeeds 
To one of true resolve; and patriots m.ourn 
To see God's imag-e, dread of Saracen, 
From, all our loyal, hig-h-browed manhood torn! 
Proclaim with rag-e sublime and flam.ing- pen 
That Freedom dies where states repudiate their 

men ! 



THE OLD CLOCK. 



The old clock that ticks as I write, that 
ticks loudly, for the night is still and the sleep- 
ers sleeping- softly, recalls a cluster of hallovred 
memories. I have had it thirty years. Nothing- 
about me has been my companion so long", and 
nothing" inanimate touches as it does the tender 
chords of my heart. Its kind face has beamed 
over my hearth-stone when I have sat wearied 
and care-worn; it has told the hours of the 
birth of my children; it has awakened me to 
consciousness when with exhausted frame and 
energy I have fallen asleep at the bedside of 
the sick; it has g^reeted me upon my return 
from many a journey abroad; and it has seemed 
to sorrow with me when I have taken up my 
mournful pilg-rimag-e to the city of the dead. 
Let us keep, dear old clock, not with another, 
but as two friends, the secret of our wander- 
ing's, and disappointments, and heart-burning's, 
and joys, and feasting-s. I know you will, for 
your ticking- tones are now as heart-throbs, and 
laden with the g-entle voices of those whose 
forms are in the dust. I renew my vows of 
constancy, and shall keep you where you are, 
for the hands that placed you there have 
clasped hands with God ! 



HOME-MADE TROUSERS, FOR BOYS. 



The revival, in my immediate family, of 
home-made trousers, recalls one of the most 
painful and humiliating- trials of my boyhood. 
The fashion in home-made trousers, for boys, 
does not vary from year to year, as is the case 
with flowers, sleeves and bonmots, but remains 
the same yesterday, today and forever. It 
shows no trace of art, and lacks any and all 
conformity to the g-raceful outlines of a boy's 
middle and leg's. The trousers, cut and sewed 
to the fashion under consideration, are a full 
inch too short, and flaring at the bottom; the 
side seams come well forward; the width is the 
same all the way up; the seat is extremely 
baggy; a singular fullness distinguishes the 
waistband; there are odd seams here and there 
in the upper half; the pockets are sideling, and 
the buttons too wide apart. Also, the home- 
made trousers, for boys, are generally napless, 
and often shiny, going to show that they have 
been cut down, or, it may be, that they are the 
product of infinite labor and pains, "When at 
the age of ten I was dressed up in mine, which 
were somewhat outre, my mother expressed 
great admiration at my neat appearance in 

4 



them, for they were her own handiwork, and 
her first and last effort on any boy; but when I 
went out, and my chums saw me, and made 
grame of the stilted thing-s, I became heartsick: 
and to this hour I feel an inward sinking- when- 
ever I think of the day I first turned out in my 
home-made trousers. 



MARY. 



Did rose e'er bloom as fresh as this? 

Or features set with kindlier g-race? 
Did dewy morning- ever kiss 

The blushes on a sweeter face? 



RILEY. 

As to James Wliitcomb Riley. This g"en- 
tleman of versatile genius appeared before a 
crowded house at the Grand on last Monday 
nig^ht. The Lyceum Bureau had him in chargfe 
and is deserving- of praise for its enterprise in 
bring-ing- him within hailing distance of Pueb- 
loans. But it was the Hoosier poet's renown 
that packed the house, and no assemblage that 
ever gathered at the Grand quit this beautiful 
temple of art in better hum.or, or with more 
hearty rejoicing in the fame of its entertainer, 
than that which greeted and scrutinized and 
laughed and wept with Mr. Riley. There are 
other mimics, delineators, fun-makers, reciters, 
just as good. But there are few the world 
around who, having captivated us with the 
strength and beauty of their verse, can exert 
over us, as Riley can, the power of the necro- 
mancer, by breathing into their characters the 
breath of life for our edification, and adding a 
fresh fragrance to the perfumed fields where 
the honey-dew drips and the bees and birds 
drone or twitter in the summer air. 



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THE MAID OF COSTILLA. 



Sweet maiden of the crested land, 

Thy native home shall speak for thee; 

"Where God's most wondrous temples stand 
To guard, inspire and make thee free. 

Untaught abroad where academes 
Their partial rules of life impart; 

Thou singest by the mountain streams — 
Thy cloister close to nature's heart. 

Above the pride which men allow 
To wealth or station, race or blood, 

Thou liftest high thy tranquil brow 
Girt with the wreath of womanhood. 

Shall prudish art resist thy charms? 

Or taint the birthright all thine own? 
Thy worth is more than coats-of-arms; 

Thy heart is greater than a throne. 

As radiant as the sunset dyes, 

When hast'ning east the storm-clouds roll, 
No fairer form to mortal eyes 

Has ever clothed a human soul. 



CHRISTMAS. 



Today is Christmas; and Christmas, 
whether of Judean origin — whether it falls at 
the time of year when the shepherds once 
watched their flocks hj nig-ht — or is an accom- 
modation to the old German Yule-feast; or yet 
is a fiat once meant to impress the heathen 
nations with the divine character of Jesus of 
Nazareth by locating- it in the winter solstice; 
whatever the circumstances of its beg-inning-, 
it has come to mean in this place and time a 
day of rest and peace and g-ood will. 

Drop out of mind for the moment all 
thoug-ht of Him whose praises are exulting-ly 
sungf wherever in the temples of Christendom 
voices ming-le in hosannas today, and Christmas 
is blessed still. If there is nothing- in all the 
hovering- cloud of precious memories which 
sanctifies it; nothing- that softens it with true, 
maternal love; nothing that makes it mellow. 
or lends it the fragrance and beauty of a day 
that was charmed in A.uld Lang Syne, it is still 
blessed. For it is a day of cessation from toil 
and strife. It is a day also when men's 
thoughts are turned away from, themselves. 
"Then gently scan your brother man" is a pre- 

8 



cept of Burns that is a living-, breathing- senti- 
ment on Christmas. The shortcoming-s of our 
fellows fade, or are blotted out, in the era of 
g-ood will. If, as Goethe says, a man never 
leaves a room the same man he entered it, then 
the moral g-ain to the nation in the passing- of 
Christmas, with its unselfishness, its joyous- 
ness and its chastening- influences, is incal- 
culable. 

To most of us, aye, I would fain believe, to 
almost all of us who have traveled bej'ond the 
romantic period of life, Christmas is a renewing 
of youth. Not only because the memory of the 
old pine-wreathed and snow-hung- Christmases 
is so vivid as fairly to carry us back ag-ain to 
the days when Time loitered with us as a play- 
mate, and when our overflowing- streng-th and 
spirits revealed life to us as a series of triumphs, 
alternating- with a round of transporting- pleas- 
ures; but also because, in merry prattle and 
shouts of ecstasy, the little towheads and 
raven-locks re-enact before us then the scenes 
of those haloed hours which are all the more 
treasured because irrecoverable. We feel ag-ain 
the flush of the sunlig-ht of life's morning-. I 
pity — out of my heart I pity — the man who 
cannot enter into the joys and surprises of the 
children's world of wonders on Christmas, or 
who does not sympathize with their g-ladness to 

9 



the extent of giving- them the iiouse if it 
pleases them to take it. Dear boys I Dear g-irls! 

"We are stronger and are better 
Under manhood's sterner reign; 
Still we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again." 



THE RAIN THAT DIDN'T COME. 



Oh, the odor how delicious, 
Of the rain that didn't come! 

Oh, the promise how auspicious, 
Of the rain that didn't come! 

Brown the fields — our labors thwarted- 

Droop the hearts of the stout-hearted; 

Oh, the hopes that have departed 
With the rain that didn't come! 



10 



THOMPSON. 



This week, on Monday, I carried in a sack 
to the heart of the city, and "lost" there, a good 
and useful cat, who had been in the family two 
years. We wrote his name Thompson, but 
called him Tom. Tom had just been accused 
of hig-h crimes and misdemeanors, and while 
the evidence against him was wholly circum- 
stantial, and the case a very weak one, still we 
thought he had better go out into the v/orld and 
seek his fortune. He was never forward, but 
always of a retiring disposition, affectionate, 
of gentlemanly deportment and cleanly habits, 
and highly educated in the matter of mice. 
We hated to see him go, and, especially, we 
hated and hate to think of him as an associate 
of common cats, under cold buildings, or down 
in the slums, uncared for, pursued by cur dogs, 
and lacking the good food that he was used to. 
I believe he is worthy of confidence, and if you 
see him, a yellow and white fellow, and take 
him in, I think he will do you good. He 
answers to the name of Tom, not Thompson. 



11 



DEAR MY WIFE. 



Dear my wife, I cannot be 
As dear to thee as thou to me; 
Words only mock the love I feel, 
Which still the passing- years reveal. 

Blithe my wife, the linnet gay, 
Thy gladness grafts upon his lay; 
And heeds the robin as he trips, 
The cheer that's native to thy lips. 

Fair my wife, of all the flowers 
Thou tendest 'mid the summer hours, 
I have in truth the first to see 
That is by half as fair as thee. 



12 



THE LASl DAY OF SCHOOL. 



Yesterday was the last day of school, so it 
was! And now we're going- to have fun, so we 
are! Real fun! Lots of fun! And we don't 
care if we never, never see school again! I 
suppose, my dear reader, that the manj' tasks 
set before the 5'^oung in our schools have been 
shown to possess a value for the proper discip- 
lining of the mind — proper when related to the 
work of life as we perform it, or as we think it 
ought to be performed. But the tasks are hard. 
Remember this — they are hard. No other suras 
in life are so hard to "do," no other lessons so 
hard to "get," no other difficulties so hard to 
surmount, no other burdens so crushing; no 
other discouragements arise which leave you so 
helpless and undone, so start the tears and palsy 
the energies, as those which relate to your 
school-days and the school-room. I wonder 
sometimes when I see parents so anxious that 
their children should "pass," and see them 
adopt extraordinary means to stimulate a 
tender mind, already overstrained and weary, 
if they have calculated the profit and loss, or if 
they know what they are doing! And so, I am 
right with the boys and girls who drop their 

13 



books and run with a shout from the school- 
house, glad to be done with the old thing, now 
that summer is here, and the lawns are green, 
and the gorgeous woods invite them, and the 
birds are gay. Yes, and if they "never want 
to see school again," why, that's natural. 



THE SUMMER DAYS ARE ENDED. 



The summer days are ended, and 

Deserted is the grove, — 
The north wind now is on a lark 

While I put up the stove; 
Oh, how my flesh creeps when I think 

Of what I've got to bear, 
When the frost is on the whiskers, and 

There's whiskers on the air! 



U 



A PLEA FOR THE DOWN MAN. 



Do the men who do the work of the world, 
the necessary work, the hard work, the work 
that costs pain and produces exhaustion, the 
work that wears out human lives, the work that 
bottoms all our commerce, material progress, 
national prosperity, rich men's fortunes, luxu- 
rious living-, mortal existence — do these men, I 
ask, deserve to be in a pinch when there is 
plenty for all? You will scarcely deny that 
there is plenty for all, but you may deny that 
the faithful toiler cannot make a good living. 
Very well, then. Now, would you say to your 
brother, or son, that if he entered one of the 
laborious pursuits, worked diligently, never 
drank, forswore speculation, got married, had 
children, gave them good opportunities, paid all 
his debts, helped the church, surrounded him- 
self with comforts, still worked hard on his 
wages; that at the age of fifty he would cer- 
tainly be ahead? The man who lays the basis 
of the general prosperity is entitled to some- 
thing more thah a rough board shanty and a 
crust. His contribution is fundamental, its 
quality in the general structure, substantial, 

15 



and as compared with that of the do-nothing, it 
is regal. The application of what is called the 
law of supply and demand to human labor is so 
hoary with antiquity as to seem to bear the 
sanction of divine authority'. But so far from 
this it is brutish; horrible, if Christ's law is 
holy, and it testifies to the Christianly growth 
of our generation that everywhere men are cry- 
ing out against it, and declaring that the fruits 
of labor shall first fill the mouth of him who 
labors. 



ON THE PROMENADE 



The wind took his hat 
'Cross the highway and flat, 
In the dust and all that; 
While he sped through the air, 
With his wild, streaming hair, 
And a look of despair. 

He got it at last — 
A forlorn looking cast — 
And viewed it aghast; 
Then stripped of conceit. 
With an air of defeat. 
He walked up the street. 



16 



FAREWELL. 



TO THE COW-BOY BAND. 



[On its departure for a tour of the world.] 

Not soft Italia's fervid strains, 

Nor Scotia's ballads dear, 
Can wake my breast to rapt delight, 

Or charm my willing- ear, 
L/ike fresher notes that rise and swell 

From vale to mountain crest, 
And shed the breath of butte and heath, 

Within the g-olden west. 

Where shine the peaks and gleam the plains, 

And blend in fadeless grace, 
Where freedom from her lofty height 

Surveys a sturdy race, 
There minstrels' harps by unseen hands 

In ecstacy are pressed — 
There lifts the crown of melody 

Upon the golden west. 

'Tis thine to bear a wreath whose tints 

No flowers but these have known — 
To bear to other lands afar 

The music of our own; 
Thy gentle mission shall call forth 

A welcome from each breast, 
But waits the brimming welcome here. 

Within the golden west. 

17 



BEFORE AN OPEN ALBUM. 



It is g-iven to but few to write worthily in 
albums. Here is an album whose contents are 
too heavy with religious sentiment to come 
naturally from those who, for the most part, 
are under eigliteen years of ag-e. Not that I 
do not approve such sentiments in such a place; 
but I hold that the charm of these mementos 
lies in the likeness of the written thought to 
the average mood, or bent of mind, of the 
writer. The best samples of album literature 
make the reader say: *'That sounds just like 
Jack;" and, "You can see Polly Wiggins in every 
line of this." But custom, which is oftentimes 
a grim and sharp-nosed monitor, sends the 
sweet little girl to the album to write, as in this 

one, 

"Life is real! Life is earnest! 
And the grave is not its goal," 

when the child does not know even the mean- 
ing of the words She would do better to say, 
"I was six years old last month," or, "My kitty 
is gray and I call her Helen." The few of the 
middle-aged, who have written here, came up 
to their tasks as if their present indentures 
were to live forever, and great and mighty 
issues hung upon their words. The result 
appears in the inscription of empty platitudes, 

18 



or bits of overdone commonplace, instead of 
off-hand sentiments which furnish the touch of 
nature. Here and there is a dash of humor, or 
a pleasantry, or an allusion to a witty episode, 
or a streak of neig-hborly abandon, which 
throws light, even to the strang-er, on the char- 
acter of the author. For I am a strang-er to all 
the scribes, and even to her for whom the 
scribes have written; but the liberty I take in 
these comments shall not invade the realms of 
license, nor approach the limits of identification 
of these friendly autographers. This, which 
appears here for the thousandth time, is always 
fresh: 

"When you grow old and ugly 
As people sometimes do. 
Remember that you have a friend 
Who's old and ugly too." 

The writer of the following- stanza went to 
the last page from choice. There are numerous 
blank spaces, but it is supposed that these lines 
constituted his only stock and store: 

"Last in your album, 
Last in your thought. 
Last to be remembered, 
And first to be forgot." 

It is a rare page, however, which contains 
a more brilliant or practical thought than that 
which says: 

"Dear Friend: That cats may never make 
a boiilevard of your back-yard fence is the sin- 
cere wish of Yours Truly." 

19 



THE POET, BURNS. 



In almost every citj'- as large as, or larger 
than Pueblo, next Mondaj^ will witness a 
revival of Burns, especially by the sons of the 
fathers who ha' wi' Wallace bled. No name 
among the poets, excepting alone the name of 
Shakespeare, is better known throughout Chris- 
tendom than that of the Bard o' Ayr. He was 
born one hundred and thirtj^-eight years ago 
and died one hundred and one j^ears ago. In 
no work or line of Shakespeare does Shake- 
speare appear, but everywhere in the lyrics of 
Burns the character of the author is revealed. 
Shakespeare was a playwright, Burns a singer. 
The former wrote to the mind, the latter to the 
heart. The Knglish poet is discussed, the Scot- 
tish poet beloved. Burns wrote out of the full- 
ness of his heart, giving a new beauty to 
Caledonia and making the whole world love a 
lover. He, more than any other poet who has 
ever risen, is the poet of the people, the inter- 
preter and champion of the common herd, and 
this is why his praises are upon the lips of all, 
wherever his name is known, and why they 
gather to honor his memory after the flight of a 
hundred years . It was said by Gilbert Burns, his 

20 



brother, that the poet used to remark to him 
that he could not "well conceive a more morti- 
fying- picture of human life than a man seeking- 
work." It was while under the influence of 
this sentiment that many of Burns's later poems 
were written, and especially the poem, "Man 
Was Made to Mourn." He shared the fate of 
all who battle for the lowly. Those who had 
flattered him became his enemies for it, and 
called him "a Jacobin." And he was finally 
turned out to die of a broken heart ! 



DON'T. 



Don't tell me of daisies and bluebells, 
Don't tell me of people you knew, 

Don't sing- me that song- from Beethoven, 
Don't pout and beg-in to look blue; — 

But shove me the pickle and crackers, 
And fetch me a plain oyster stew. 



21 



A NEW RACE. 



[Suggested by reading the letter of a traveler 
which describes what he says is a distinct race, a 
peculiar people known as Coconinos, dwelling on the 
Colorado river.] 

I've sung of races great and small, 

From Mongol to Albino; 
But here's a race that heads them all — 

The ancient Coconino. 

Where boils the Colorado's tide, 
Which you may not, but I know; 

Here dwell his sons, and here he died — 
Old father Coconino. 

The Anglo-Saxon frets and fights 
For fame and power and rhino; 

Not so the peaceful, drowsy wights, 
The sprigs of Coconino. 

These make their cups of grape-vine leaves, 

And monkey at casino. 
And wipe their noses on their sleeves — 

These sprouts of Coconino. 




CO 

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06 

03 



CO 

-r— < 



ROBERT. 



The most promising- boy in our school was 
my friend, Robert. He had a mother and four 
sisters. He was mj" playmate at six, my bosom 
companion at sixteen, and my correspondent 
for eig-ht years after the currents of life threw 
us apart. He had a g-ood mind, an ag-ile frame 
and a handsome face. When he saved me from 
drowning- at thirteen, I placed a small value on 
it: it was a matter of course. Perhaps I never 
mentioned it at home. It wasn't for this I liked 
him, but because he was an honorable, g-lorious 
boy. He became an accomplished billiard 
player at eig-hteen, and unfortunately beg-an to 
tipple at late hours. His business career, then 
just beg-un under the most favorable auspices, 
was the subject of frequent mention in our 
letters. He was very hopeful. But within four 
years, his employers, althoug-h patient and 
friendly toward him, found it necessary 
to dismiss hitn for insobriety. After an 
interval of some years he came to see me at my 
new home. My wife and children greeted him 
warmly for my sake. But he was not the same 
Robert. He was dull and insensate. For the 
only time in my life I then spoke to him of his 
besetting sin. He answered me solemnly that 

23 



he had not touched liquor for six months. He 
told me this while his breath was foul with the 
odors of the cup! After two years I made a 
long journey to see him at the old home. He 
came to the door supported by two canes, and 
g-rasping- him, I carried him bodily back to his 
easj' chair to look upon the most hopeless and 
unutterable wreck my eyes ever beheld. A 
year more and I went ag-ain, but he had been 
coffined and buried for three months. His dear 
mother, who was like my own mother, and who 
ever spoke to me as to her own son, broke to me 
the intelligence, and after adding- that among 
his last words he called my name, sat in utter 
sikence. For what could she say that would not 
reflect upon her boy, and against his fault her 
lips were sealed evermore I There is no moral 
beyond the words I have spoken. But don't 
blame me if I do those things that may save 
your friend, or my son, from Robert's unhappy 
fate. 



Vw^^ 



■24 



FLETCHER HILL, PUEBLO. 



Fletcher Hill, east of the Fontaine qui 
Bouille, is bathed in the morning- light a little, 
not much, earlier than the rest of Pueblo; and 
the soft rays of the sun linger lovingly there at 
eventide when the lengthening shadows have 
overspread the city, and the brightness is with- 
drawn that g-ilded its hundred spires with the 
glories of the sunset. And then the air of 
Fletcher Hill is not clogg-ed with sulphurous 
smoke, but rises ever balmy and sweet, laden 
with the fragrance of the meadow, newly shorn. 
The birds sing sweeter there, the burly, pitiless 
northwesters seem tempered there, the insinu- 
ating and boisterous snows, which torment the 
denizens of the valley, fall gently there, and 
set as a lig-ht crown over its summit to blink 
and glisten and sparkle awhile, as if in merri- 
ment, under the glare of the noonday sun. 
Fletcher Hill must not be overlooked in the day 
of our prosperity. 



25 



i HE OLD SHOP. 



I. 

I knew a smith of iron frame, 

Named Skopf — Hans Skopf — a crazy name, 

And often in the days long- gone. 

When school was out, my chores all done, 

I'd creep in where his g-reat fire shone — 

But he g"rew g^ray 

And passed away. 

II. 

Then Hans the young^er, spare and brown, 
Took up the tools Old Hans laid down; 
And kejDt the shop, and toiled and sweat 
In winter's cold and summer's heat — 
And each day'd each day's tasks repeat — 

But he g-rew g^ray 

And passed away. 

III. 

Now lyittle Hans that was is there — 
The bellows, anvil, forg-e, just where 
His gTandsire left them in his day; 
And there the sparks still form their spray, 
And o'er this Hans their lig-ht doth play — 

And he'll grow g"ray 

And pass away. 



26 



TONIGHT. 



Fierce the blast from wrathful skies, 
Writhe the cottonwoods with pain, 
Plaints from drifting- herds arise 
Where the tumult sweeps the plain; 
And the street-lig-hts come and go 
In the g"usts of sifted snow. 

In the falling-, flying- snow, 

On the half-deserted street. 
Men are pressing to and fro 
Where the winds contending meet; 
Turning-, hastening left and right 
To their several homes tonight. 

To their different homes tonight — 

To abodes with pleasant walls 
Where a stream of sumptuous lig-ht 
O'er each costly fabric falls; — 
Or to homes whose frosty air 
Weaves the image of despair. 



27 



Weaves the picture of despair 

Where the fading flame burns low, 
Where a face that once was fair 
Vacant stares in want and woe, 
And the lone and wretched room 
Is a charnel-house of gloom. 

Is a place of dreadful gloom. 

Though these hands have known the strife 
Since the day of youthful bloom 
Of a labor-burdened life: 

There is toil which none requite, 
There is unearned ease tonight. 

There are wedding bells tonight 

Sounding through the fretted nave. 
There are feasts and costumes bright, 
There are chaplets for the brave: 
O, where Want confines the door, 
God have mercy on the poor! 



28 



THE TRAMP. 



Is the tramp at your door a volunteer in 
the discredited army of tramps? Maybe not. 
Maybe he was once a capital fellow who by slow 
degrees lost his gfrip. Discourag-ement as the 
result of business reverses which swamped him, 
sickness, starvation wag-es, loss of position— 
these may have been the successive misfortunes 
which landed him among the friendless, the 
outcasts, the despised— the tramps. The church 
passes him by, society shuns him, the law visits 
punishment on him. For what? For being- a 
tramp, for flaunting- in rags, for begging bread. 
But he won't work. Is his class the only class 
that won't work? How much would you work 
for a slice of sad bread and a pickle, pushed at 
you with an air that implies: "You are a trav- 
esty on humanity; you have no right to live !" 
How much? Does any say, "Here, my man, is 
steady work at good wages. Here's a chance 
to live and to save, to start life again, to make 
something of yourself, to surround yourself 
with comforts, to take your place as an inde- 
pendent man among men?'' No, not one. 
Maybe our cities ought to say to every idle 
man, "Come and take a job on the public works 

29 



and we'll ^ive you your grub and clothes, 
besides so much money every Saturday night." 
If they did, begging and sneak-thieving might 
be reduced to the minimum, hold-ups might be 
rare episodes, the jail bills enormously reduced, 
the people happier and better, and the cities 
maieriaiiy improved. 

"And in the world as in the school, 
I'd say how fate may change and shift— 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 
The race not always to the swift; 
The strong may yield, the good may fall. 
The great man be a vulgar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all. 
The kind cast pitilessly down." 



AT THE BROOK 



Come sit beside the babbling brook, 
And hear me read the babbling book; 
Come lean upon my glowing breast, 
But do not soil my glowing vest. 



30 



ON LEGS. 



On the subject of legs — men's leg's — it is 
remarked by a friend, who is a person of close 
observation, and a judge of small matters, that 
few of them are as straight as a die, ten per 
cent of the whole number of pairs suggesting 
an hour glass, being of the knock-kneed 
variety, and a large majority of the remainder 
being more or less bowed. Short men run to 
bow-legs, never to knock-knees, while many 
tall men, especially tall, meaty men, sport the 
latter fashion. Six-footers, wearing bows, are 
exceedingly ra.re, and five-footers with legs like 
a new-born calf's, rarer. Bowed legs are 
stronger and more durable than those that give 
inward, but as to which is the more graceful, 
this is a pure matter of taste. Scarcely any 
mates in bow-legs, or other legs for that matter, 
are of exactly the same length, the one ending 
in the right shoe being, as a general rule, a 
trifle the longer. Striking specimens of outre 
designs in oval legs, and those which divide at 
the knee-joint, are to be seen any day on our 
streets, and some of them, encased in rich 
cassimere, are worn by our best people. It is 
an interesting study — legs is. 



31 



CONFIDENCE IN HUMAN NATURE. 



My young- friend, you. will find in your 
breast a spark, and I hope a lively spark, of 
confidence in human nature. Cherish it as a 
g-ood possession. The world with all its faults 
is worthy of it, and your own heart and life 
need it. I admit that we are shocked sometimes 
by the downfall of a prominent man, whose 
g-reed or passions have wrought his ruin. But 
there are other men. Have you not known, or 
have you not heard of, scores and hundreds of 
men whose public and private lives were beyond 
reproach, whose names were never tainted by a 
scandalous breath, and who have laid down 
with honor to themselves every trust committed 
to them? Some of us have known scores and 
hundreds of women, too, g-rand women, whose 
verj' presence would banish every ignoble 
thoug-ht, and warm into fruitful life every 
emotion of honor, and truth, and usefulness, 
and kindness, and chivalry. What does this 
mean? It means that it is unworthy of us to 
class with these the malefactor and worldling; 
to withdraw our confidence from devoted and 
saintly mothers, and from the toiling, brave, 
noble men who, against odds, are lifting up the 
world. Join the ranks. 



32 



COLORADO. 



What hand shall sweep the trembling- string-s 

That hold a symphony divine, 
The meed that lavish nature bring-s — 

Where sits enthroned the columbine? 

There is no art, aspiring-, hig-h. 

Can move the soul as these do mine — 

These g-lories of the earth and sky 
Where blows the chosen columbine. 

Yon monarch peak! What touch but mars 
Its breast on which the clouds recline? 

Whose head is pillowed with the stars — 
Where sleeps below the columbine. 

Here fan the plain the west winds mild, 
The dreamy vale, the wanton vine; 

There canons crash with thunders wild. 
Where hides the timid columbine. 



33 



The pioneers, with hearts unmoved, 

Who came t' unlock the treasured mine, 

Beholding-, paused, and pausing-, loved, 
Where sweetly blooms the columbine. 

Now on the trail g-leam hearthstones brig-ht. 
And fanes proclaim the sacred shrine, 

And cities rise in g-race and might, 
Where proudly waves the columbine. 

Fair State, commanding-, hopeful, strong- — 
Thy sons' the virtues that are thine — 

May God thy days in peace prolong-. 
Where fondly g-lows the columbine. 



34 



ON THANKSGIVING. 



"There is that scattereth and yet increas- 
eth; and there is that withholdeth more than is 
meet, but it tendeth to poverty." 

Thanksgiving- day is past and g"one, but the 
flavor of it yet abides in the last hours of 
Thanksgiving- week. This feast day, appointed 
by proclamation from^ yea,r to year, has become 
fixed among our national institutions and 
promises to survive the agitations, changes 
and revolutions which are certain to checker 
the life of this and all other human govern- 
ments. It should be a season of chastening — a 
great leveler. It is the only day on which all 
the people are solemnly ca.lled by the national 
and state authorities — called, too, by the glo- 
rious memories of the past — to consider the 
fullness of the blessings which have descended 
upon us as a nation, and as individuals; to rev- 
erently look up to the Author of these great 
gifts; and to ponder upon our duty, as citizens 
and as neighbors, who have temporarily in our 
keeping the priceless boon of liberty, and to 
whom the unfailing harvests come with 
abounding plenty. No one, unfettered by party 

3.5 



discipline, will deny that there has set in, and 
there is going- on, a decay of the spirit of liberty. 
The all-pervading" and burning- desire of the 
men who ordained the course of the new-born 
states, wrote the declaration and framed the 
constitution, has now no place in the breasts of 
our law-g-ivers and expounders. Commercial- 
ism has become g-reater than the rig-hts of the 
citizen. Partyism, ag-ainst which Washing-ton 
warned his countrymen with infinite pathos 
and power, has blinded men, displaced patriot- 
ism, and become a national curse. The gov- 
ernment announces itself as helpless to protect 
its humble citizens against the machinations of 
money-combinations which are despoiling them, 
the bone and sinew of the land, and stealing 
away their liberties. To make headway against 
them through parties, seeking power, is impos- 
sible. To make headway by petition and 
remonstrance is idle to undertake. Men may 
cry, "Peace," but there is no peace, and will be 
none until opportunity is free and a light 
breaks over the land which today gives no 
token of its source or power. 

As neighbors, the day, and all its associa- 
tions, invite to forgetfulness of injuries, to 
great generosity, to a deep thoughtfulness for 
the poor, the afflicted and the friendless. Have 
you prospered? A hundred have not. Give of 
your great abundance with gladness. This 
little life will soon be spent and you will be 
judged here and hereafter, not by what you 

36 




o 

eg 
O 

5 



J 



have, but what you have given, and what you 
have done. The days which are great levelers, 
the days of universal fear, of universal disaster, 
of universal joy, the days when all men are 
kin, are worth more to the life of a nation than 
all the victories of diplomacy, or all the con- 
quests of commerce. 



WA-AH. 



I should rejoice in wa-ah. 
Where cannons loudly ro-ah; 

To be a victah on the field! — 
I should not a-ask for mo-ah. 

My blood I'd freely po-ah. 

For sca-ahs I do ado-ah; 
An officah on dress pawade! — 

I should not a-ask for mo-ah. 

Ca-an't we pwovoke a wa-ah 
Of calinag"e and of g^o-ah? 

To thrust and pawwy with the foe!- 
I should not a-ask for mo-ah. 



37 



THE BUCKWHEAT CAKE. 



Is there any place, I wonder, 
On the earth, above, or under, 
"Where a solid chunk of bliss occurs 
With never a pain or ache? 
Isn't unmixed joy a fable, 
Save when at the breakfast table, 
We have bested, and have feasted 
On the buck wheat cake? 

Oh, the roundelays that meet me, 
And the buttercups that g-reet me, 
As I press the frag-rant meadow 
When my fancied stroll I take; 
These, all frolicsome and cheery, 
Make me scorn my lot, so dreary; — 
But what beaming bliss comes streaming 
From the buck wheat cake! 

Ah, the lack of life's completeness! 
Ah, the snares in every sweetness! 
U'en the hopes that filled and thrilled me 
Have all given me the shake; 
Naught redeems the years from scandal, 
Where the game's not worth the candle, 
But the creamy, gleamy, steamy, 
Dreamy buck wheat cake! 



38 



THE VETERAN'S DAY. 



It has been truly said that the young- live 
in the future, the middle-ag-ed in the present, 
and the old in the past. To those who were full 
g-rown men and women when Ivincoln lived, and 
when the tiding-s of battle and the sig-hs of the 
sorrowing- were borne on every breeze, the day 
of days in the calendar is that on which the 
deeds of the civil war are recounted, and the 
sweetest flowers of the valley are strewn upon 
the mold where the ashes of the fallen repose. 
There is no eloquence too fervent, no laudation 
of the dead too lavish, no homage too profound 
for Memorial Day. And we should not wonder 
at it when we reflect that there is but one day 
in the year when the old soldiers, shining 
marks for the Great Reaper, turn out in every 
city and hamlet to close up their thinning- 
ranks, and, pledging themselves anew in the 
spirit of fraternity, pay open respect to their 
comrades-in-arms who have g-one before. It is 
the only day, too, on which they come before 
those of the young-er g-eneration, asking them 
to keep in memory the brave who have passed 
to their rest, and who freely offered all they had 
that their country, united in hope and destiny, 
might be preserved. 

39 



HAZEL. 



[Lines written on the first anniversary of the birth of 
Hazel Belle Dickson.] 

Upon life's threshold, Hazel, dear, 
Thou'st been a learner one full year; 
A peeping" round, you know, to see 
What sort of folks these "big- folks" be. 

And did you think these eyes of ours 

Were busy, too, as well as yours? 

For while you've looked us throug-h and 

through. 
We've summed up what we think of you. 

And this is it, my baby fair: 
You're like a jewel, rich and rare, 
A radiant sunbeam, in the grove, — 
The dainty sweetheart that I love. 

But how much more to him and her 
Whose life-streams thine own pulses stir! 
Thou art a burst of heavenly song 
Whose cadence vibrates all day long-. 

The scenes our daily thoughts eng-age, 
Are scarce behind the mimic stage 
In swift transition: g-rave or gay, 
They are forg-ot in yesterday. 

40 



So, soon thou'lt stand amid life's throng- 
A g-lowing maiden, fair and strong-; 
And if your brow betray one care, 
My heart will wish it were not there. 



A SUMMER IDYL. 



The jack-rabbit climbed up the strawberry tree, 

Rumpity tum.pity tum ; 
And perched by the owl that he chanc-edto see, 

Rumpity tumjjity tum. 

The coyote and prairie-dog waltzed on the green, 

Rumpity tumpity tum ; 
And the grasshopper greas-ed the mowing 
machine, 

Rumpity tumpity tum. 

The calf and the cottontail chuckled with g-lee, 

Rumpity tumpity tum ; 
While the antelope rop-ed the bum-elly bee, 

Rumpity tumpity tum. 

The burro wept softly, then told of his woes, 

Rumpity tumpity tum ; 
And the gobbler he solemnly blow-ed his nose, 

Rumpity tumpity tum. 



41 



'GENE FIELD AND LABOR'S REWARDS. 



The tribe of idlers who so willing-ly ascribe 
brilliant performance to unaided g^enius will 
find little that they can turn to account in the 
life of Kug-ene Field. One who knew him well, 
writing- recently for the readers of the New 
York Sun, says of him and his work: "The 
labor of filling- his column of Sharps and Flats 
so wore on him that at the time of his death he 
was struggling- to get out of it. * * * His 
capacity for work was prodigious But his 
work was never hastilj' done. He did not dash 
thing-s off. A poem or story g-rew in his mind 
until it was complete, and then it was written 
in a fine, microscopically perfect hand." In 
other words, he possessed the genius of labor and 
was not lacking- in the "capacity for taking- 
infinite pains." There are few Chattertons, 
but many Shenstones. Few Hamiltons, but 
many Gages. The differences between men in 
a g-iven profession arise more largely from in- 
equality of application than inequality of native 
capacity. I^abor counts. Without it, the man 
of splendid endowments will lose. With it, the 
one of mediocre talents will win. But all this 
is aside from money-making. Field, with his 

42 



great capacity for labor and his laborious 
habits, made no more than $5,000 a year during 
the latter part, which was the best j)art, of his 
life. The lout who lays schemes and squeezes 
his fellows, whose tastes run to shaving- war- 
rants and roping- in the unsophisticated, often 
beats $5,000, and always gets more than he 
earns. It's a pity. But there are spots on our 
system in which we can enforce rewards com- 
mensurate with the amount and kind of labor 
performed, and it becomes those who profess a 
love of justice to brig-hten these spots as occa- 
sion offers. In the meantime, such men as 
Field enjoy no light reward in the conscious- 
ness of power, and the generous recognition by 
others of the sacrifices and toils by which they 
attain it. 



43 



OUR SCHOOLS AND THE NEW WEST. 



[From an Address.] 

Great as it is to possess a land whose cli- 
mate is unexcelled, whose fields are fruitful, 
and whose riches in grold and silver are incal- 
culable, it is g-reater far to g-row splendid men 
and women! — Men and women of large souls 
and high purposes, whose divination of the 
truth and whose consecration to lofty aims shall 
furnish an inspiration to the world. 

"Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay." 

It seems to me, as it always has seemed to 
me, that our schools — the schools of Pueblo — in 
their moral tone; their clean, buoyant atmos- 
phere; their just estimate of the essentials; are 
doing their part in setting the feet of the rising 
generation in the sure way; and I have faith 
that the influence, on the character of our young 
people, of these imposing hills, this vast, 
stretching plain, these tumbling torrents, these 
fleckless skies of ours, the manifestations of 
the varying moods of nature which are to be 
seen here and nowhere else — revealing singu- 
larly, as I believe they do, the glory and the 

44 



majesty of Almighty God — I have faith, I 
repeat, that this New West, the land we love, 
favored above every land of which we are told 
in song- or story, will yet produce a race of men 
and women who shall lift higher the standards 
of Liberty and Fraternity, and in whose hands 
the cause of humanity shall go forward to 
sublimer achievements. 



SET SPEECHES. 



We hear a good deal about "set speeches" 
in the Senate. Set speeches do not necessarily 
set well, but they have their advantages. There 
is an end to them; they say more in a given half- 
hour, and they are more apt to say what the 
sayer wants to say, than the upset ones. Mr. 
lyincoln's memorable speeches were his set 
speeches, and so were E^verett's, and so were 
Blaine's, and so were Voorhees's, and so have 
been IngersoU's. The trouble, if any, with the 
set speech, is not in the setting of it, but the 
speaking of it. 



45 



A MODERN HERO. 



The throng- made way for Emmett Gray, 
And mirth g^ave place to sig^hing-; 
And many an eye o'erfilled with tears, 
His gentle mien descrying. 

Unblanched, he stepped to Vnlco's Cliff, 
Nor pride, nor fear could move him; — 
To Vulco's Cliff, whose cloud-wreathed cone 
Rose half a league above him. 

His gleaming blade quick smote the rock — 

Again its side was riven; 

And Emmett's step was fair upon 

The giddy trail toward Heaven. 

Up, up the giant rock he climbed, 
While hearts beat swift below him; 
Up, up — O Fate! forbid that dread 
Mischance shall overthrow him. 

The hours pass by; on, on he goes — 
Two hundred feet remaining; 
No earth-born creature ever yet 
One half his height attaining. 

46 



A shriek burst on the heavy air! — 
His upward task was ended; 
For bounding- 'gfainst the rugg^ed crag-, 
His clinking" steel descended. 

"What means his hig-h uplifted hand?" 
Men gfasped with lips a- quiver; 
Forth flamed his answer, bold and plain, 
"Grkgg's Tonic 

For 
The Liver." 



HE W()RE THE SWEETEST SMILE. 



Her dimpled boy, how she caressed! 
And kissed him oft the while; 

And hug-g-ed him fondly to her breast- 
He wore the sweetest smile. 

A tramp besought a frug-al lunch, 

The noon-hour to beguile; 
And keen began to sip and crunch — 

He wore the sweetest smile. 

I went to view a melon patch, 

Not over half a mile; — 
But now there stood a dog on watch — 

He wore the sweetest smile. 



47 



LINCOLN. 



The Scotland of the Bard o' Ayr is a new 
Scotland, born under the inspired touch of a 
peasant boy, who lived, in the formative period 
of his life, and at the time when he wrote his 
earliest song"s, under a roof where the occupants 
knew little else than the buffeting-s of misfor- 
tune and the pains of poverty. "Wordsworth, 
Scott, Southey, Byron, Long-fellow, Brj-^ant, 
Whittier — there are none among- these upon 
whom the freshness of a divine gift sat with 
such beauty and glowed with such fervor. 

* * 
* 

And in the early part of the century there 
was born in the hills of Kentucky, and in the 
cabin of a plain and hardy pioneer, a man upon 
whose shoulders were to rest greater responsi- 
bilities than had ever been laid upon the shoul- 
ders of any other citizen of the Republic. 
There were already families accustomed to the 
duties of diplomacy and statecraft, families 
distinguished for their patriotism and high 
character, but Almig-hty God chose to endow 
Abraham Lincoln with a g-enius for govern- 

48 



ment, and to invest him with the noble personal 
qualities necessary to direct the course of a 
nation with safety through the perils of an 
unprecedented crisis ana to show forth an 
example of administration and American man- 
hood that would be an inspiration to his own 
and succeeding- g-enerations. Veriljs there are 
lofty missions appointed to the poor, and there 
is virtue in the discipline of daily toil and hard- 
ship and poverty. 



JOE JEFFERSON. 



Joe Jefferson at the ag-e of 68 is still draw- 
ing- packed houses of old and new admirers in 
the eastern cities, still furnishing studies to the 
more ambitious of the young actors, still living 
over again, in their crowning joys and griefs, 
the lives of Rip Van Winkle, Bob Acres and 
Caleb Plummer, while thousands laugh or weep 
at the consummate art which has made him 
master of American comedy. It may as truly 
be said of Jefferson as has been said of another: 
"He had the wisdom of age in his youth and 
has the fire of youth in his age." The modern 
stage has not known a nobler character or a 
truer artist than the man who has quickened 
with life the legend of Falling Water. He has 
no rival and, in the quality of his genius, will 
leave no successor. 

49 



A SONG COMES TO MY HEART 

TONIGHT. 



A song- cotnes to my heart tonig-lit, 
That loved ones used to sing; 

Whose rippling- numbers clear and sweet, 
A wealth of memories bring — 

Of youthful form.s, and faces bright 
As wild flowers in the spring. 

A song comes to my heart tonigiit, 

A fond, appealing lay; 
V/hose cadence sanctifies the scenes 

That crowned a blissful day, 
When every path was love and light, 

And every heart was gay. 

A song comes to my heart tonight, 

Whose echoes fainter grow, 
And die away 'mid spectral forms 

Once warm with life aglow; 
Alas! that visions lure the sight, 

And singers come and go! 



50 



THE HALF-WAY HOUSE. 



We differ in our tastes and preferences as 
stars differ in their g-lory, but for one I would 
not exchang-e the views to be obtained from the 
lonely cogwheel road to Pike's Peak for all that 
the Manitou reg-ion offers besides. For a dis- 
tance of three or more miles the road traverses 
the base of a chasm, where a plashing- stream 
rumbles ceaselessly and the brilliant verdure is 
undefiled. The sides of the chasm are g-lorious 
in shrubbery of many hues, and in setting-s of 
vari-colored stones of shapes as fantastic as 
the 'Shadows of a dream. What is known as 
The Half-Way House occupies a spot than 
which there is no other in that country more 
alluring- to the man who is in search of a quiet 
mountain retr^t. It has its cascades leaping 
between stupendous natural walls, its lawns, 
its diverging- canons spangled with daisies and 
wild roses, and is beautified with rustic bridges, 
nestling pavilions, floating banners, and a 
cheery, inviting log cabin. The altitude here 
is 9,000 feet, and for solid comfort there are few 
situations that equal a place at the appetizing 
board of this unpretentious tavern, on a July 
evening, when the air is chilly without, and the 
cozy dining room is filled with light and 
warmth from the blazing logs in its great fire- 
place. 

51 



BILL NYE. 



It was not till yesterday, when I opened tny 
copy of The Industrial Advocate and found the 
space, formerly occupied by Nye's letters, filled 
up with advertisements — the Nye head lines 
absent, the characteristic and funny pictures 
g-one— that I felt a sense of personal loss in the 
humorist's death, or that I fully realized that 
he had indeed, and for good, dropped out. His 
pen had at last fallen from his hand, his final 
copy had been corrected, his series of letters 
was at an end! Nye was not always interesting- 
in his subjects; nor could it be truly said of him 
in his eiforts to amuse us, as has been said of 
another, that "the mercury of his g-enius always 
stood at the inspired point"; but no other 
American humorist has stood the test of a gen- 
eration and fared so well in the esteem and 
affection of his readers as Bill Nye. He was 
needed. His work was not slipshod, but showed 
the marks of the student, the painstaking writer 
and the conscientious artist. He was a man of 
extraordinary talent. And there is no one left 
in all the land to take his place. 



A VIZZUT TO THE 23. 



[I had an opinion yesterday; I have an opinion today; 
and I take no concern whether they agree or not.— 
G. G. Duggins, M. D.] 

Thinks I the other day — thinks I, 

"I'll take in that there club, 
That knows a blame sig-ht more'n me, 

Or any other scrub; 
I'll get an invite down to Doc's, 

Doc Dug-g-ins, — do you see? — 
An' hear them literary chaps 

They call The 23." 

A.n' so I strikes Judg-e Elwell, who 

Ain't very hard to strike, 
An' tells him I'll go with him when 

He's ready for to pike, 
An' hear them g-ladiators — if 

He'll take a man like me — 
An' see 'em wrastle with Old Doc, 

Down at The 23. 

I know'd Old Doc had writ a piece 

About the Standard Oil, 
An' cracked up corporations 

As a boon to them as toil; 

53 



An" so when Klwell says, "Come on!" 

Says I, "Old man, that's me;" 
An' off we moseyed to Old Doc's 

An' met The 23. 

Old Coulter, he held down the chair, 

An' Vories, why, he took 
The thing-s was said, and things was done, 

An' writ 'em in a book; 
An' Strug-nell, Cuddeback an' Wells 

An' Thum was there, I see, 
Just ranged around, an' a dozen more 

O' them there 23. 

An' soon Old Doc shot off his speech, 

A warmin' as he went. 
An' paintin' Rockefeller as 

An alabaster saint; 
"He hires," says he, "four million men 

Who would ha' starved but he 
Took hold of this oil bizness!" — 

Then dared The 23. 

Quick Thum jumps up with figures which 

Makes out Old Doc a liar, 
An' Haver, Stephenson an' Smith, 

Piled fuel on the fire; 
Then Hermond roared an' sawed the air 

Like Keene in tragedy. 
An' shuk his fist, till I sings out, 

"Hoop-ee The 23!" 



54 



"We'll have a fig-ht 'bout now," thinks I, 

But Old Doc shuk his head; 
"Don't tear your shirts, so, gentlemen, 

Just cool yourselves," he said; 
"I writ that speech last week, or so, 

An' writ it fair," says he, 
"But now our views is right in line, 

/V/7 w/fh The 23!" 



THE CIGAR STUMP. 



Well, now, that looked low and no mistake! 
A man of fifty, soiled, and down at the heel, 
picked up in my presence a cigar stump the 
other day, and, when he saw I saw him do it, 
seemed to feel a pang of shame, — but he stuck 
to his stump. Then I bethought me — How 
many men, who pass for his betters, stoop as 
low as he did to do small acts quite as shame- 
worthy, and never wince! The old soiled sinner 
needed a smoke to brace him up. Do the others, 
I wonder, need even to be braced up? 



03 



OUR TALL BOYS. 



Do our Rocky Mountain boys grow tall? 
Citizen W. D. I^tshaw says they do. Not 
many days ag-o this urbane g-entleman was 
moved by the spirit to buttonhole me and dilate 
for my exclusive ear on the tall-sycamore 
growths of our budding men. "There is my 
boy," said he, "and Rood's bo)', and young 
Packard, and young Dugg^ins, and young Bar- 
num, and young Studzinski, and young Elwell, 
and the Blunt boj's, and a number of others, all 
reaching- up to, or going- beyond, the six-foot 
line, and I believe the country is g-oing to pro- 
duce its full quota of six-footers." I thought a 
few years ag-o that the east was sending us 
large consignments of short fellows and that 
this whole strip of country was remarkable for 
the low average stature of its people. I feel 
sure yet that an Ohio or Kentucky town of 
40,000 inhabitants will outrank Pueblo in the 
matter of big men — men who are big- up. But 
at the same time it seems true, as Citizen Lat- 
shaw has discovered, that our home product — 
the product which, familiar with the cactus and 

56 



jack rabbit from infancy, has known no other 
skies, or streams, or breezes than those which 
smile, or flow, or blow over the mesas of the 
mid-continent— is on the tall order; and also 
that Colorado may yet become as famous for its 
big- men as Rocky Ford for its watermelons. 



BUN JESSUP. 



Bun Jessup 

He's the meanes' kid 

Yo' ever want to see; 

'N' sassier, 

'N' sez dog-gon 

'N' 

Eiv'rything- to me. 

'N' then the 

Other day his ma 

She sed to him, "Now Bun, 

Yo' go ketch mice, 

'N' 'en I'll give 

A 

Cent fur ev'ry one." 

'N' he kep' takin' one mouse back, 
'N' got his money ev'ry crack! 



57 



MY FRIEND, ELMER. 



When Blmer Woolsey died the career of a 
useful citizen ended. This young- man, who 
had worked as a dairy hand for the last three 
years, came to Colorado to recover his health 
and to join his fortunes with those of his 
brother, Fletcher, from whom he had long- been 
separated. There was nothing- peculiar about 
his life. He shared the common experiences 
and lot of the ever-plodding- multitude, with 
only the ambition to be justly rewarded for his 
labor, and with only the resolve to live a 
rig-hteous and sober life. On Monday last he 
formed a plan to g-o on the following day with 
his brother and his brother's wife to the Royal 
Gorg-e, and to view with them the wonders of 
the mig-hty chasm; but before the coming- of 
the hour set for the departure, he was in his 
shroud, and the pleasant family journey to the 
canon became instead a solemn march to River- 
view. I loved him because he was true and 
square and, living- or dead, my affections g-o out 
to him. Farewell, my friend! 



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